


Trauma

by alex_caligari



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Hopeful Ending, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Post-Episode: s04e13 Journey's End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 05:38:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17554400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_caligari/pseuds/alex_caligari
Summary: She watched him disappear from that beach, again, and stopped talking.





	1. After the Coma

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2009.

Rose watched him disappear from that beach, _again_ , and stopped talking. Too much had happened, too much adrenalin had flooded her system and left her drained. No one said very much, and that made it more unnerving. The journey home was dream-like with exhaustion. They were in a car, the three of them (or was there a driver as well?), and she couldn’t remember where they were or where they were going. Fatigue had fogged her mind, but she remembered turning to him. The new one. He was watching the landscape pass by and started at the sound of her voice.

“Between you and Donna, I would have thought that gob of yours would be going non-stop.”

He looked surprised, but smiled at her comment. It seemed wistful. “Guess I’m just…adjusting.”

 _Aren’t we all,_ she thought, but said nothing.

Home, if anything, was worse. Days passed, and she still felt drugged from exhaustion. She barely spoke to _him_. Yet he was the one who suggested the solution. Through minimal conversations, they decided to part. They would return in a year, they said, one year, and until then they could go wherever they wanted. _And do whatever they wanted,_ was left unsaid _,_ like so many things. The space would allow both of them to heal and come to terms with the world. She went to New Germany, he ran to Brazil. She lasted three months in Europe, and one in Russia. It didn’t help. She finally returned home to seek some solace.

At first, she thought that Jackie would understand the best. After all, her husband had died, and she found him again in a parallel universe. But the separation had been too long. Jackie’s memories of Pete had blurred and faded and been rewritten over the years. Both she and the person who became her husband had changed and grown. They could build anew because they had no shared history.

Relief came, surprisingly, from Jake. He found her one night curled around a cold mug and staring at the stars. He sat beside her on the porch.

“I didn’t trust Mickey at first,” he said after a long silence. “I had just lost my leader, my friend, my lover,” he added ruefully, “and here was this—this lunatic who looked exactly like him. He sounded like him, he moved like him, he even thought like him after a fashion. I would catch myself thinking that he was Ricky. Then I would remember, and it would…hurt.”

She hadn’t said anything, so he turned towards her. “I know that it’s not the same situation, but maybe the process is. You look at him and know exactly what he’s going to say, but he doesn’t say it. He says something similar, but not the same. Right?”

She nodded numbly. “It’s like,” she said, her voice harsh, “it’s like he’s woken up from a coma or something. What do I do?”

Jake didn’t answer right away. “When you guys left after the cybers, Mickey told me that he wasn’t trying to replace Ricky. And he didn’t. He was just himself. He didn’t try to be someone else. He didn’t become the person I wanted him to be. But, after a while, it worked.” He leaned back a stared at the stars with her. “I miss him.” At her glance, he said, “Mickey, I mean. You know what the last thing he said to me was? Before he went off the save the universe? ‘See you around.’ Like he was coming back.” Jake shook his head and laughed slightly. “But he knew. I think that was the only way he could say good-bye. Do you miss him?”

She snorted. “Which do you mean?”

“Who came to mind first?” he countered.

“We’re not talking about Mickey anymore, are we?”

“Depends. Who came to mind?” he asked again.

She was silent this time. It was several minutes later when she said, “Yeah. I miss him.”

It was three months after that midnight confession, seven months since he had left, that he returned. He quietly let Pete and Jackie know his whereabouts, then went to the modest flat they had set up for him. She waited until evening to find him. He stood when she entered, watching her carefully. He was browner and scruffier and, if possible, leaner.

“Hello, Rose,” he said.

“It’s good to see you safe,” she smiled. “My Doctor.”


	2. During the Treatment

Rose walked along the street, breathing in the crisp air of early spring. She stopped at an ordinary block of flats and rang the intercom. After a pause, it crackled and a voice said, “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Rose replied. “Hurry up.”

More scuffling. “I’ll be right down. Just having a bit of difficulty with the, uh, never mind.”

Rose smiled. This wasn’t unusual behaviour. A few minutes later, the Doctor came out of the building looking apologetic. “Sorry, it was the com. I was trying to set up some voice recognition, so you didn’t have to wait outside all the time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Could just give me a key,” she said.

He paused. “Oh. Right. Could do that.”

Rose bumped him as they walked. “Trust you to come up with a difficult solution for a simple problem. And what are you wearing all that for?”

He was dressed in jeans and a dress shirt, with a large grey denim coat over it and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck.  “It’s cold.”

“No, it’s not. You’re just a wimp.”

“I’m not! You try living south of the equator for the better part of a year and then coming back to a country where it rains half the time. In winter. With wind. You wouldn’t be laughing then.”

She laughed anyway, and remembered their conversation when he returned three weeks ago.

The reunion was heartfelt, affectionate, and short. They had greeted each other like long-parted friends, not like lovers. They embraced each other tightly, like in the old days, and loosened their hold reluctantly.

For a moment Rose had been at a loss for words. What did you even say at a time like this? She finally settled on, “How are you?”

He smiled. “Alright.”

“I went to Russia,” she said.

“I went to Brazil,” he said.

“I watched the news,” she blurted, “you know, in case there was any sign of...of trouble.” She had meant to say “ _of you”_ but couldn’t quite admit it, not yet.

“Any luck?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“No. You kept a pretty low profile.”

He grinned. “I might have been involved in a revolution or two. But nothing major. Nothing that escalated thanks to my impressive diplomacy skills.”

She smiled in return. It was becoming easier, less forced. “Yeah, sure. You and that gob have always, and will always, get you into trouble.”

He glanced away and had reached up to scratch his neck, an old gesture of embarrassment, when she noticed his arm.

“What happened?” she cried in alarm. His forearm was covered in long, jagged scars trailing from his wrist to his elbow. They were white from age, but the sight of them was painful.

“What? Oh, nothing. It’s fine,” he said, trying to hide it in genuine embarrassment.

She glared at him. “What happened?”

He tried to shrug it off. “I got into a fight with a barbed wire fence.”

Rose reached out and traced the furrows in his skin. “Were you alright?” she asked, trying to calm down.

“Yeah, fine. You should see the other guy,” he joked. He ran his own fingers over them. “But,” he paused. Rose looked at him to go on. “It wasn’t the pain that startled me most. It was the blood.” He turned his arm in the light. “It was red.”

Rose had left soon after that.

His voice brought her back to the present. “—actually fairly cold in some places. There was one village in South Argentina where the main source of income was scarf making. That’s where I got this.” He waved the green fabric in front of her. She delicately reached out to rub it between her fingers.

“It’s soft,” she said.

“It should be,” he replied. “The fibres are chewed by toothless old women for three weeks.”

Rose quickly dropped the scarf. “People chew your clothes?”

“Not all of them,” he scoffed, “just this. Three weeks, Rose! Can you imagine chewing on fibres for three weeks? And every time one of the women loses another tooth, it’s added to this wall like a memorial. There’s hundreds on it, increasing with each generation.” He stopped talking and stared ahead of him like he was seeing the tooth-wall all over again; his expression was a mix of marvel and nostalgia.

“How did you like it?” Rose asked.

“What?”

“Travelling. Here.”

“Oh. No, good. It was interesting. A good way to break in my new trainers.”

Rose glanced down at his feet. He wasn’t wearing high tops like he used to, but high-end walking shoes that matched the rest of his messy-chic clothes. Unlike his other clothes, however, their weathered look was genuine rather than manufactured. “Where are we going today?” she asked. He often called her up to show her sights in London that she would have otherwise missed.

“The History of Film!” he said proudly, as if he had invented it himself. “There’s an exhibit on a few streets down. Thought it would be interesting to compare the two histories, you know this one and—”

“The other one,” Rose ended. The less said about her old world, the better.

The exhibit was in a small converted movie theatre, one of the oldest in London. Guides dressed in old fashioned clothing showed them around, and they were informed that in half an hour, a showing of _Casablanca_ would be on. People liked to tell the same stories in both universes. Rose and the Doctor stayed and settled in for the movie. It was only after the opening credits did she think that it might not be the most appropriate choice of film, considering their own situation.

He didn’t seem to notice, though, and kept murmuring things about the time period, the culture depicted, and the film technology available and how it was different.

It struck her as very human and very domestic. It made her uncomfortable for reasons she couldn’t name.

He was silent as they walked back to his flat, and she knew he had something weighing on his mind. She was scared to ask about it and open strange floodgates. Finally, he spoke.

“Rose?”

“Yeah?”

“Before, I used to make all sorts of promises, to all sorts of people. Promises I knew I couldn’t keep, but I said them anyway to give hope and trust to those who needed it. I promised I would keep you safe. I promised I wouldn’t leave you.”

“You tried, though. You didn’t give up.”

“Yes, I did. I gave up on you. And in doing that I broke another promise. But now, I can’t make any promises.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t promise you that I won’t run again. I can’t guarantee I’ll stay in one place long enough to make any sort of life. But if I do run, I’ll ask you to come with me.”

She watched him, and knew that if he was brave enough to be this honest with her, she had to do the same. “I can’t promise I’ll always say yes.”

Oddly, he smiled. “I’ll have to ask twice then.”


	3. Before the Recovery

“It’s nearly May 7,” the Doctor said abruptly. They were sitting on a park bench having chips and watching people feed ducks. Despite the warm weather, he still dressed heavily.

“Yes,” Rose said. “Comes right after May 6, sometime after February 7.” She was sunning herself and too relaxed to care about the date.

He didn’t join in her jocular tone. “May 7 makes it a full year since I came here.”

That sobered her up. A year since Norway and the beach and the abandonment. She glanced at him; he was watching the grass before him, his face impassive. She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to feel sad or happy at the news. “How are you doing?” she asked, needing to take her cue from him.

“Maybe I’ll just get sloshed and wake up in a stranger’s bed not remembering any of it.” He turned to her.

It took a moment for her to get that he was joking. She made an exasperated noise halfway between a laugh and a snort.

“I mean, that’s what people usually do on their birthdays, right?” he said with a smile twitching at his mouth.

“You bastard,” she said, smiling. “You’re too old to be a rebellious teenager and too young for a midlife crisis.”

He straightened, trying to be offended. “You’re only as old as you feel, right? So, either I’m one year old, or 910 years old. Which one do you think I’m closer to?”

“Either way, I’m not trailing after you making sure you get home alright.” It was easier for Rose to talk about the doubleness of his life now. Yes, they were the same, but different. Mirror images and two sides of the same coin. Rose could never fully explain it, but knew she accepted it. “So, birthday, huh?” she said. “I never thought of it that way.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t really affect the age number, but people like having an annual marker for themselves. Just following tradition.”

A cloud passed in front of the sun, chilling Rose’s bare arms. “I don’t even know how old I am.”

Silences had become part of their routine. They were no longer awkward or painful, but allowed moments like these to pass by without harm.

“So, what’s New Germany like this time of year?” he asked.

Rose thought about it. “Floral.” He looked at her and cocked an eyebrow. “There’s a big flower festival there, where all the cities compete to be the most colourful and exotic. Why?”

He shrugged again and fiddled with his shirt cuffs. Rose suspected that he wore long sleeves to cover up his scars from a barbed wire fence rather than because of the weather. She reached over and took his hand.

“How’s Brazil this time of year?” she asked in return. She knew what he was leading up to and wanted to help him get there.

He smiled ruefully. “Getting towards autumn. Bit chilly. You might need a scarf.”

“I know where I can get a nice one, then.”

The Doctor dropped the game. “I need to go, Rose. I feel like I’ve seen everything here. It’s getting dull, and I don’t want to start resenting it.” He turned fully towards her. “I promised that I would always ask you to come with me when I needed to run. I won’t expect you to always say yes; you have a family here, and a home, and a job. You have a life here, and I know you can’t drop everything for me. Not like the first time I whisked you away.” He smiled briefly. “But I’m letting you know before I go, and I want you to know you would be greatly welcome to join me.”

Rose stared at him.

“But no pressure,” he blurted.

“Australia,” she said.

“What?”

“Ask me again and ask me to go to Australia.” She smiled. “Neither of us has been there yet.”

The Doctor struggled to control his face, something she had never seen before. Finally, he settled on a serious expression. “Will you, Rose Tyler, join me in running hell-bent for Australia, getting into trouble we should have avoided, and generally causing grief and worry wherever we go?”

Rose beamed and wrapped her arms around him. She could be brave for him and took a chance. She pulled away slightly and kissed him gently on the lips. “Oh, Doctor, I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
